


A Good Dream For A Couple Of Idiots

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>John startles awake, struggling to clear the remnants of the lingering dream from his brain. It had been so real, the vivid images still present when he closes his eyes. He is breathing hard and cursing his subconscious for betraying him. Because as much as he has tried to stop himself from imagining things, he can’t control his dreams, it seems. </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Dream For A Couple Of Idiots

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> This has also been translated into Czech by the wonderful [Miamam](http://miamam.tumblr.com/)
> 
> There are two parts [Part1](https://johnlockpositive.wordpress.com/2016/04/19/povidky-z-tumblr-dobry-sen/) and [Part 2](https://johnlockpositive.wordpress.com/2016/05/15/povidky-z-tumblr-parek-idiotu/)

John startles awake, struggling to clear the remnants of the lingering dream from his brain. It had been so real, the vivid images still present when he closes his eyes. He is breathing hard and cursing his subconscious for betraying him. Because as much as he has tried to stop himself from imagining things, he can’t control his dreams, it seems. 

John rolls over to his back, groaning when he realizes he is hard, his erection impressively tenting his pyjamas. Easy to understand, the dream been so realistic. Miles of pale skin under his lips, that long, lean body laid out like a feast below him, inky curls spread like a halo on the white pillowcase. Those pale eyes heavy lidded and narrowed in pleasure as John sucks marks into the alabaster flesh of that sinful neck. And christ the sounds. In his mind, low moans intermixed with his name falling from those perfect lips. 

“Christ.” Just the thought of that mouth makes his cock twitch. John tries to ignore it, but his traitorous mind helpfully supplies several activities for that mouth, and like that, John knows he has lost the fight. He snakes his hand under the waistband of his pyjamas and wraps his fist around his straining erection. He gives a couple of firm strokes, running his thumb across the slit and spreading the wetness he finds there to increase the slide. It is not nearly enough, what he wants is to bury himself in warm, lush heat. Wants to grab a hold of silky curls, while that clever tongue is occupied with his pleasure. It’s a hopeless fantasy, John knows. Doesn’t mean he can’t indulge in it. 

John reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the lube then slides his pants off, kicking them out from under the covers. He slicks up both hands, then resumes his ministrations, firmer strokes, base to tip, adding a twist at the end just the way he likes. He spreads his legs wider, and with his other hand, he reaches below to caress his balls, rolling them and tugging gently as he works his cock. In his mind it is Sherlock’s larger hands on him, caressing, stroking, moving further back as his mouth bobs and sucks on his length. 

“God - Sher -” John bites his lip to keep from moaning his name. He is pretty sure Sherlock is not in the flat, something about body parts and Barts, but John doesn’t take any chances. 

John feels his orgasm building, the combination of his hands and his vivid imagination doing the job to bring him close to the edge. He reaches further back and around, trailing his middle finger down his perineum and circling his hole. He has only done this to himself a couple times, but in his head, it’s Sherlock’s longer fingers teasing, seeking entrance, and god he wants it. 

“Oh god yes,” he pants as he presses inside, the burn mingling with the pleasure and spiking his arousal even further. He tightens his hold on his cock and plants his feet, bucking his hips upward, to thrust himself into his fist and back down on his fingers. He can see Sherlock between his thighs, letting him fuck into his mouth, while he fucks John with his fingers. He moans, stroking faster, as he imagines flipping them around, taking Sherlock into his mouth as he slips his fingers inside Sherlock’s body, opening him up. And more. Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his waist, John’s cock buried in that luscious arse, John’s fingers leaving bruises on those pale hipbones as he slams into him again and again. He imagines that voice moaning John’s name as Sherlock dissolves into pleasure, the slick ring of muscle tightening around his cock as Sherlock comes, breath hot on John’s neck. 

The last image pushes John over the edge, with a loud cry he thrusts hard into his fist, his release spurting hot onto his belly, his whole body quivering with pleasure as the aftershocks race through him. Slowly he comes back down to earth, his breath slowing, every muscle in his body feeling as if he has run a marathon. He reaches over the side of the bed to grab his discarded pants and clean up, before deciding it is a lost cause and he is better off showering instead, the mix of come and lube too much. He climbs out of bed and throws on a pair of clean pants, all the while hoping that Sherlock really was out of the flat. 

Because John is sure of two things. One: that was the best orgasm he has had in a long while. And two: he is pretty sure he screamed Sherlock’s name as he came. 

John walks to his bedroom door and throws it open and runs smack into a wall. Specifically a wall shaped like Sherlock. John looks up horrified, wondering how long he has been standing there. Sherlock is still wearing his coat, leaning against the doorframe. He is breathing hard, his head bowed, his chest heaving. John begs to whoever is listening that Sherlock has just returned home.

“Sherlock, what - what are you doing?” It comes out a bit breathier than he wants, but that cannot be helped, not with the object of his longing right in front of him and the evidence of his desire still drying on his skin. 

Sherlock snaps his head up, fixing John with his stare. John sucks in a breath. There is a flush on those impossible cheekbones that John is willing to bet has nothing to do with the weather, and his eyes are hot and dark with desire where they track John into his room. John instinctively wets his bottom lip, and Sherlock’s eyes trace the movement before moving back upwards. 

“I heard you say my name,” he growls, before stepping into the room and slamming the door behind him. 

+++++++++

Sherlock’s heart is beating out of his chest. John stands before him looking like sex incarnate, hair sleep mussed, flush high and breath short. Sherlock can smell the scent of spent desire in the air and it makes his mouth water and his knees go weak. He has no plan, no strategy, for once his great brain is silent and his transport is fully in control. Has been since he opened the door to the flat and heard the muffled moans and rhythmic squeaks coming from John’s room. 

Just those sounds were enough to make Sherlock’s breath come quicker and his cock start to thicken in his trousers. John pleasuring himself has come to inspire a matching need in Sherlock, one he has had to indulge more often as of late. Laying on his own bed, listening to the bedsprings from the floor above as he strokes himself firm and hard, imagining John above him. Or listening to the wet sounds of John in the shower, skin against skin, driving him on as he plunges slick fingers in his arse, rutting against the sheets, visions of John’s impressive cock driving into him, claiming him. Sherlock has to bite down on his pillow to keep from screaming John’s name as he comes, John’s answering groans echoing from one room away. John is always loud, louder than he realizes, but what Sherlock heard today had shaken him to the core. 

His name. John had said - no yelled - his name as he came. That had pushed out all reason, and Sherlock had flown up the stairs, needing to see, to deduce, to touch. But now that he is here, he suddenly doesn’t know what to do. He is trembling all over and all he can think of is that he needs to get his hands and mouth on John now. He surges forward, stopping only a breath away from John’s lips. John swallows, looking up at him guiltily. That won’t do, he doesn’t want John to be guilty. 

“You said my name,” he whispers before closing the distance and pressing his lips to John’s. Considering the situation they find themselves in, the kiss is comical in its chasteness. Just a press of lips, Sherlock’s hands grasping John’s shoulders lightly. For a second, John freezes under his lips, and Sherlock thinks he’s made a big mistake. Maybe John prefers to keep things in the realm of fantasy, preferring not to cross the line. He starts to pull back, to retreat, when suddenly it is as if a switch is flipped. John fists his hands in Sherlock’s hair, scratching his scalp lightly, and Sherlock gasps, opening his mouth to allow John’s tongue to sweep inside. Sherlock moans, grabbing onto John’s biceps, as the kiss turns hot and wet, their tongues sliding against one another’s. 

Sherlock breaks away, breathing hard, as John mouths his way down his jaw, pressing kisses and kitten licks to his neck. Sherlock tilts his head to give John better access and wraps his hands around the back of John’s head, just holding him there. He feels John smile against his skin, as his hands move to push his coat off his shoulders. 

“I guess I was pretty loud,” John says, kissing down Sherlock’s neck to suck on his adam’s apple. 

“Loud? I could have - ah - heard you at - oh - Barts,” Sherlock pants, as John bites down hard on his collarbone. “I just didn’t realize you thought of me, when you -”

John pulls back, waiting until Sherlock lowers his head to look him in the eye. “It’s always you, Sherlock.” He trails one hand down Sherlock’s neck, down his chest, swirling his pointer finger around the hardened nub of Sherlock’s nipple through his shirt. “I didn’t think you -”

“I do. I want -” Sherlock’s head is spinning, John’s fingers are teasing him through the fabric, his body pressed in close, hot and hard against his own. But he needs John to know, to understand. “You. John. I - it’s always you, too. When I - God!” John rolls his nipple between thumb and forefinger and pinches. 

“It seems we’ve been a pair of idiots, then.” 

“Indeed.” Sherlock dips his head and captures John’s mouth again, licking inside and swallowing down the noises John is making. Slowly he begins to walk them backwards, kicking his shoes off on the way. John chuckles when his legs hit the bed, and he slowly turns them until it is Sherlock stretched out on his back, John standing between his thighs. 

“Do you want me to show you what I was thinking about earlier? All the ways I’ve imagined you?”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, and his cock throbs where it is trapped in his trousers. “Yes, please.”

John smirks, and leans down to remove Sherlock’s shirt, kissing each inch of skin as it is revealed. Sherlock wriggles and writhes at the sensation of John’s mouth on his skin, his chest. It is better than he could have imagined. John bends his head and laves his tongue around his nipple, and Sherlock arches his back, grabbing on to John to press him closer. A repeated motion on the other nipple has him close to begging, his hips instinctively rutting upwards. 

“Christ, Sherlock, you are so responsive. I hoped you would be, but god. Look at you.”

“John,” Sherlock moans, his legs moving restlessly on the bed. 

John groans. “That voice, I knew it would sound like dripping sex, but good god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckles at that, a deep rolling sound that vibrates through him, mixing with John’s breathier giggle. Sherlock reaches down and pulls John up, claiming his mouth again, the giggles dying out to the sound of shared moans and gasps, as John presses his body on top of Sherlock’s on the bed. Sherlock lets out a low growl when he feels John’s cock heavy against his own. And hard. Impressive, that. 

Sherlock snakes his hands around John’s hips, grabbing his arse, and pulling him closer, rubbing himself against John’s answering hardness. It feels deliciously good, even through the barrier of fabric between them. John presses back, rolling his hips, once, twice, panting breaths against Sherlock’s shoulder before pulling back and stepping off the edge of the bed. 

Sherlock leans up on his elbows. “John?” But if he thought John is stopping, he is wrong. John is pulling off his vest and pants, until he stands before him gloriously naked, and Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. “You’re exquisite,” he whispers, proud he can still form words. 

John gives a tiny hum, then moves down to press kisses to Sherlock’s abdomen, swirling his tongue inside his navel, before unfastening Sherlock’s trousers and tugging them and his pants off in one go. Sherlock is spread wide, his cock jutting proudly upwards and leaking on his stomach and suddenly he feels self-conscious. John leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock’s hipbone before trailing across to the other and sucking gently. 

“Look who’s talking,” he says, “you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock is about to respond, but can only manage a long moan as John bends and takes the head of his cock into his mouth. He rocks his pelvis upwards, but John lays an arm across his hips to hold him down, pressing his tongue to the frenulum and wrapping his other hand around the base. John sets a slow pace, deliberate licks to the head then firmer sucks as he bobs along his length. It’s driving Sherlock crazy. His hands are fisted in the sheets, his thighs trembling where they are pressed against John’s head, the need to thrust overwhelming. 

“For god’s sake, John,” he growls, lifting up to watch his cock disappear into John’s mouth inch by agonizing inch. 

John chuckles around him, the vibration sending sparks shooting up his spine. John pulls off, stroking him firmly with one hand while he grabs the bottle of lube with the other. “I’ve dreamed of this Sherlock. So many times. I’m going to savour this.” John slicks his fingers and slides them down, past Sherlock’s balls, over his perineum, teasing at the crack. John watches Sherlock as he pauses, all the while continuing to pump his cock with the other hand. “Yeah?” 

Sherlock spreads his legs wider, his arousal building higher and higher in his belly. “Yes, John,” He moans, throwing his head back as John lightly circles his hole. Oh god, does he want this. He shifts his hips lower, causing John’s finger to slip in, both of them groaning at the intrusion, before John sinks his mouth back down on his cock. 

“John!” Sherlock is lost in sensation. John’s hot mouth working him while his finger plunges in and out of his arse. His skin is on fire, his orgasm building like a crescendo. John slips a second finger beside the first and the burn only adds to the pleasure, Sherlock crying out for more. John curls his fingers, rubbing against his prostate, and Sherlock can’t hold back anymore. 

“John, I’m going to -” He shouts his warning, which John promptly ignores, curling his finger again and sucking harder on his cock. “John!” Sherlock screams as his world explodes in showering sparks, cascading through his body, white hot and perfect. John moans around him, eagerly swallowing down his release. Sherlock raises up enough to see John’s arm and lower body in motion, he is fisting his own cock as he licks Sherlock’s come from his softening cock. The sight is enough to coax another spurt. 

When it becomes too much, he gently pulls on John’s shoulder, dragging him upwards and capturing his mouth in a filthy, wet kiss. He can taste himself and it makes him moan, sucking harder on John’s tongue where it rubs against his own. John is still pumping at his own cock, his hips giving minute thrusts. Sherlock snakes his hand between them and entwines his fingers with John’s and together they work his cock, faster and harder. John breaks away from the kiss, and Sherlock licks down his neck, sucking hard on a pulse point. 

“Come on, John,” he coaxes, before biting down. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, that’s it, fuck, fuck!” John yells as he comes, his release shooting between them and coating Sherlock’s stomach, making Sherlock groan in delight. John collapses on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, kissing his cheek, his temple, any part he can reach. John’s weight feels fantastic and he never wants to move. He’s about to drift off, sated and happy when John shifts above him. 

“I believe that’s twice now today I’ve yelled your name.” 

Sherlock opens his eyes to find John’s blue ones smiling and mischievous above him. He chuckles, tracing his finger across John’s eyebrow. “I see. And which time was better?”

John’s eyes go soft. “I’d take the real you over a dream any day.” He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “But now I really do need a shower.”

Sherlock rolls over and admires the view as John makes his way out of the bedroom, smiling softly at the events of the last hour or so. John’s voice startles him from his reverie as he calls from the doorway, “If I had known getting caught would inspire this though, I’d have yelled for you a long time ago.” Sherlock can hear John’s giggle follow him down the stairs. He can’t help but join in. They really are a couple of idiots. 


End file.
